[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure Read online

  —Table of Contents—

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  A Note to Readers

  About the Author

  Excerpt: Pestilence

  CLOSURE

  RANDALL WOOD

  COPYRIGHT

  CLOSURE

  Copyright © 2009 by Randall Wood.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information contact:

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  and the portrayal of the screw are registered trademarks of TensionBookworks.

  Book design by Randall Wood

  Ebook Production by QA Productions

  Jacket and Cover design by Derek Murphy

  Steelfish Font © Typodermic Fonts, Inc.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  is on file at the Library of Congress

  Wood, Randall, 1968-

  Closure / Randall Wood – 3rd ed.

  ISBN-13:978-1-938825-00-2

  Third Edition: February 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DEFINITION

  clo•sure'klo zher

  n: a closing,

  a conclusion, a bringing to the end

  EPIGRAPH

  When injustice becomes law, rebellion becomes duty. —Benjamin Franklin, 1759

  The state of Alabama holds 29,253 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 20,000 are repeat offenders.

  —ONE—

  The shot was not going to be a difficult one: two hundred meters through a few hardwood trees and some scrub brush according to his rangefinder. He had made others at a much greater range. The wind was blowing left to right at about five mph. Everything said this was the lawyer’s last day—if he showed up.

  He marveled at how perfect the spot was. He had selected it during the second week of observing his target. A wooded area of about twenty acres, it was being developed for more urban sprawl. The bulldozers were quiet this morning, but would start up at nine a.m. sharp, so as not to violate the local noise ordinance. The closest one was still three acres away, over a low rise which served to block any view of him. He hoped his target wouldn’t be early this morning as he was counting on the noise to cover his shot.

  He ignored the sweat running down his face and focused through the scope on a young girl in her BMW. He could clearly see the diamond earrings in her ears, no doubt a gift from daddy. Probably came with the car. She was parked at the spot where he hoped his target would arrive: first car at the light, although the second and even the third were within his sector of fire. First car was preferred as it provided a safer angle. He didn’t wish to hurt anyone downrange of his target. You never knew when a jogger would run by; they were anywhere and everywhere.

  A cell-phone suddenly blocked his view of her ear. Luckily, his intended target was right-handed. A cell phone would only have a chance to deflect his round after it had done its job.

  The bulldozers rumbled to life. Sounded like at least two, plus the brush-hog they had been using yesterday. Time check: 8:55, a little early, but not enough to upset the rich suburbanites in the gated community next door. The high wall around the homes kept most of the noise out anyway. He would have to observe the intersection constantly now; he could no longer hear the approaching vehicles.

  After its twenty-two second wait, the BMW with the teenager moved on, oblivious to the fact that a high-powered rifle had been aimed at her head for the last half-a-minute. No sign of the lawyer. This was okay. His latest time so far had been 9:32. Another half-hour was nothing when compared with the days he had waited to get his shot in the past. The lawyer would be along; he never missed a day of golf. He took a drink from the water bottle he had brought and settled back. The Florida sun was rising fast and the day promised to be another scorcher. His camouflage one-piece coverall didn’t help, nor did the face net and wide-brimmed hat he had on. Face-paint was not an option on this shoot. The sweat would only help things later.

  One of Florida’s cow ants walked across the ground in front of him. The things were huge—a good inch and a half long—orange and black with one nasty bite. Actually, some kind of hornet, he remembered. Made him wonder if it was indeed sweat he felt crawling down his back.

  The pain in his gut hit without warning. Not enough to make him move, but enough to distract him from his sight picture. The pains were coming more often now, as if telling him to hurry. It pissed him off. He knew how much time he had; he didn’t need a constant reminder of it. It was a major distraction he didn’t need. The pain subsided as another group of cars pulled into the intersection. Back to the scope and scan: a Mercedes-Benz convertible of the right model, but no sign of his boy. He took another drink to help calm his gut. The ant was gone.

  He made another mental rehearsal of his actions post shot. Its route was memorized, with two alternates if the need arose. He still wished he had set up a second vehicle, but then it would be left behind and eventually be found. No, one car was enough, and he had plenty of money on him if he had to make a major change. It was a good plan they had come up with, and he would stick to it. After all, the lawyer was only one of the names they had chosen, but the message would require more than one to be effective. Back to the scope. The envelope would explain it all.

  Another group of cars stopped at the light: a Lexus, a Cadillac, and an H2 Hummer. No shortage of cash in this neighborhood. He did linger on the Hummer for a few extra seconds. A good vehicle, but he still preferred the older model to the new, slicked-up civilian version. A cop joined the group, driving a brand-new Crown Victoria with all the bells and whistles; nice to have a good tax base to finance the police. He was impressed with their gear, but not with them. They had all the fancy cars and nice uniforms, but he felt they spent their money on the wrong items. The chief thought it more important to have a fancy paint job on his car proclaiming it a “Tactical Respon
se Unit” than it was to properly secure his department’s communications. Something he was exploiting at this minute. The radio he had clamped to the small of his back looked like any other radio you might see a person wearing at the gym, but this one he had modified to listen in on the police in this particular Orlando suburb. This would have been impossible, if the chief had spent a few bucks on a scrambler. There had been no chatter since the morning shift change. He recognized the deputy; he had dubbed him “Number Two,” as his gut was the second biggest of the four. He was about forty minutes early today. Odd, but not a great concern as long as he wouldn’t be there when the lawyer arrived. The response time to his fake man-with-a-gun nine-one-one call had been over four minutes—more than enough time for his planned getaway. He watched Number Two turn right as always, and start his second lap around the suburb. Crazy set-up they had in Orlando; you could drive just a few miles and go through three or four different towns—all with their own police, fire, and parks department (another big thing in Orlando). Efficiency suffered because of it, but this was to his advantage today. Too bad really; despite their current lack of professionalism, he liked cops.

  Three more sets of cars, but still no sign of the lawyer. He might set a new record if he didn’t show soon. The wind had stopped, and the small stake with the pink telltale ribbon, which he had placed at the intersection, was also still. He was pleased no one had moved it. It looked just like other survey stakes one would see around developments, so people probably dismissed it as soon as they saw it. Since he would be shooting down a draw at such a close range, he didn’t really need the tells, but he knew his business and took every precaution to ensure it only took one shot. This included adjusting for wind, if needed.

  Another Mercedes-Benz convertible, one of four possible cars, pulled up to the light. The lawyer only used the limo on the weekdays. Top up, but windows down. The man did not like air-conditioning.

  It was him.

  He watched as the target slowed for the yellow light like a good citizen. The teenage boy in the Cadillac SUV behind him had to brake hard to stop in time. He could hear the sub-woofers from the kid’s stereo all the way from his hide. It probably was pissing off the lawyer. Why kids had to have them was beyond him. His neighbor had the same problem with his kid. Only his car was a small Mitsubishi which needed the money spent on the engine instead of on the stereo. The kid made a rude gesture toward the lawyer’s rearview mirror. The lawyer ignored him and stared straight ahead, head cocked to one side to see the signal around his visor.

  • • •

  What the hell was wrong with old people? The light was barely yellow, and this old fart stopped. They both could have made it! Jimmy was late to meet his girl at the mall. They weren’t going shopping—although she could do that all day. They were meeting to sneak off to the beach for some fun. Daytona was only two hours away, and Hilary said she would finally try the fake ID he had gotten her a couple weeks ago. He was hoping that, with a few drinks, she might be up to getting that hotel room he had hinted at. It was a good plan, and this old fart was holding it up! He threw him a finger and cranked up the bass on his fifteen-inch subwoofers. He knew it pissed off anyone over thirty years old.

  • • •

  The lawyer smiled at the kid’s anger. He was used to people being angry with him. Kids were always in a hurry. At least this one was up before noon. The stereo got louder as the kid flipped him off. Screw him, the lawyer thought. He had made five million this week on the medical case, and now he was going to play golf. The divorce would be final in a week, and the girlfriends were trying to outdo each other for a chance to be the next. Life was good for T. Carlton Addicot, tort lawyer.

  • • •

  The target was holding agreeably still, cocking his head at a slight angle away from his line of sight. It allowed him to center his sight post just behind the lawyer’s left ear. He did a quick check with his non-dominant eye for anyone beyond his target. One half breath and hold, and then a nice slow squeeze.

  • • •

  Jimmy looked up from the text he was reading. The Mercedes was pulling through the light. About time! He was about to move his feet to follow when he noticed that the light was still red. The Mercedes moved across the intersection slowly and came to rest against the curb on the opposite corner. But where was the driver?

  • • •

  The kick of the rifle had been an expected surprise, just as it was supposed to be. The impact of the round had sent the target’s head violently to the right, and his body had dropped below the level of the door. Despite the fact that he could no longer see the lawyer, he knew from experience that the shot was on target. He watched the car roll slowly across the intersection and come to rest on the opposite curb. There was a lot of blood on the shattered windshield. How did that happen? Good thing traffic was light. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He began crawling backward away from the draw.

  • • •

  Jimmy looked at the car, unsure of what to do. The light turned, so he pulled up alongside and took a look. Maybe the old guy had a heart attack or something? From his elevated position he was able to look down into the Mercedes and what he saw was right out of his favorite video game. The guy’s head was gone, but his face was remarkably intact and staring back at him. Jimmy stared for a good thirty seconds before a honk from behind made him fumble for his cell phone.

  • • •

  It was only about fifty meters to the clearing. As he walked, he calmly ejected the spent cartridge and the remaining two from the Remington. The weapon had performed well as usual. He palmed the hot brass in his hand until he reached the fire pit he had made. The live rounds he stuck in the ground under the fire. He then added the hat, the sweat band, the water bottles, and the coveralls. He next picked up the gallon bottle of gasoline he had placed nearby and doused the pile with it, adding the bottle itself when it was empty.

  • • •

  Jimmy was talking so fast his father couldn’t understand him. He finally ran out of breath long enough for him to break in and tell him to calm down, but the chatter just ramped back up. Jim Jr. was somewhat of a disappointment to his father: a typical know-it-all kid. But Senior had never heard him scared like this. All he could comprehend was that someone was dead, and his son was scared. He swiveled around to his computer and called up OnStar on the screen. Something Jimmy didn’t know was that Jim Sr. knew where his car was at all times. The screen told him he was only a mile away. He was probably sneaking off to the beach again. Jim Sr. didn’t know who the girl was yet, but he suspected it was the Johnson girl. He really hoped not; her father was a prick. He grabbed his keys and ran for his car, still trying to calm down his son.

  • • •

  He hated to do it, but he put the barrel in the crack of the rock and applied all his weight to the stock. The barrel bent just far enough to make it unusable. He had already removed the serial numbers weeks ago, so he now added the rifle to the fire. He took one last look to ensure that the envelope was in its place before pulling the matches from his pocket. The latex gloves followed the match.

  • • •

  Jim Sr. pulled to a stop in front of his son’s SUV. The boy was sitting on the ground with an elderly Hispanic woman talking to him. First, he reached in and turned off the ignition to put a stop to Eminem. He then examined his son. He was as white as his Florida tan would allow and playing with the laces on his shoes. The woman was going on in high-speed Spanish and pointing at the other car. He took a look and recognized Addicot; the man lived in the same gated community as he did. Jim Sr. reached for his cell phone and stared at his son.

  • • •

  Now clothed in dark blue running shoes, gray shorts, and a black t-shirt, he looked like any other runner out for his daily miles. He paused when he approached the sidewalk, looking for traffic, both motor and pedestrian. Seeing none, he donned his sunglasses and adjusted his radio. Already soaked in sweat, he looked the part as soon as he
stepped into the street and took up a medium pace toward his car. It was an easy three miles to the local strip-mall. Escape and evade.

  • • •

  The ambulance crew, parked at the strip-mall, had just finished breakfast, and they were settling into their normal routine of a book and a newspaper when they got the call from dispatch: P.I. (Personal Injury) accident. They recognized the intersection, as they knew the area well. Low speed area, probably just a fender bender. But this was America, land of the lawsuit, so dispatch sent them priority-one—lights and sirens—lest the injured be a lawyer and sue the city for not responding fast enough. Never mind the risk to them and the public as they raced in. The veteran driver thought all this, but he kept it to himself. His new partner still liked to drive fast. They were a mile away when they heard dispatch add the fire department to the call. Maybe he better step it up a little?

  • • •

  One mile away and the kinks in his legs were just coming out. He had just turned from looking at the smoke over his shoulder when he saw the ambulance coming. He checked the urge to wave to them as he usually did—force of habit. The crew was an older guy and a young girl. He hoped it wasn’t her first gunshot, but in her chosen career she was going to see it sooner or later. They would have a good response time, but it wouldn’t help any: just a lot of waiting, followed by a lot of paperwork. Sorry, guys. He liked medics more than he liked cops.

  • • •

  Jim Sr. told his story to the deputy as Jim Jr. just sat in his father’s car and stared up at the smoke coming out of the trees. The deputy hoped the chief got there soon, as he was unsure of what to do with this mess. He had used his cell phone; otherwise the press would be all over this in minutes. The chief also spoke Spanish, and the deputy couldn’t understand anything this Hispanic woman was saying. While the boy wasn’t talking, the woman wouldn’t shut up. Looked like a car-jacking gone wrong. He left the three together and started to tape off the area. People were already starting to gather. On top of that, the damn woods were burning. He had just driven through here not twenty minutes ago. What the hell happened?